The Doctor and the Detective
by Rihays
Summary: The Doctor gets taken to 1864 New York where a freak accident puts him together with a reluctant detective, and a heartless businessman makes an astounding alliance.
1. A Most Unfortunate Accident

**If you haven't seen the show "Copper" I suggest you do, just to get a little more clarity as to who Corcoran is and what happened. This takes place between episodes 2&3 of "Copper" and before Season 7 of "Doctor Who." I wrote with the 11th Doctor in mind, but there are some definite 10th Doctor moments. Or you can read with your favorite Doctor.**

* * *

Copper

"Always a pleasure doing business with you, Corky," Eva said, grinning. "We missed you while you were 'out of commission' shall we say?"

"I suppose we should catch up some time, then," Detective Kevin Corcoran suggested. "As for me, I have another engagement this evening."

"Oh?"

"Aye. It's a sort of celebration with my mates that I'm back to work. I hope you understand."

"Of course. And do be careful on your way out, hm?"

It was cruel humor and they both knew it. Corcoran grabbed his cane and stood, albeit tentatively. Blasted leg. No. Blasted thugs. Blasted Winfred. Ah, hell. He had time to worry later; he had a time to keep.

Even for being a detective, he did not get to ride in a carriage to the tavern where his friends waited. Those were reserved for the upper class; as it was, he still lived in Five Points. He didn't mind walking everywhere, except when his leg was busted up – which it was – and when it was raining like the Flood – which it was.

_I'll need to get good and drunk before I walk home in this,_ Corcoran thought grudgingly, gritting his teeth against the pain in his leg.

Doctor Who

The Doctor frowned. He did that a lot these days. Frowning, thinking, wondering why no one was singing along to the Kapteynian glorish music, wondering why the dart board was collecting dust and the swimming pool was growing moldy. Of course; he had no companions, not for a long time. Well, it had only been eight months since Christmas, but considering the number of things he'd done and the amount of damage he'd caused (alone) since then made it seem like much longer.

He let out the breath he hadn't been aware he was holding. As if sensing his sadness, the TARDIS' wheezing softened to a whispering.

"Oh, would you stop that?!" he said loudly. "I need…something. Something familiar. Can't you do that?!"

The TARDIS was a touchy girl; he learned that the hard way. Apparently offended by his comment, the whispering grew to a wheezing and then to an outright roaring. He grabbed hold of the railing as it tossed and turned, heading to who knew where? The TARDIS rocked and rolled like a ship on stormy waves, harder and faster; the Doctor thought he was going to be sick.

"Where are we going?!" he shouted to no one in particular, almost unable even to hear his own voice.

And then, everything was still. Absolutely still.

Gathering his stomach, the Doctor cautiously released his hold on the railing and stood. Certain now that the TARDIS was quite settled, he dared approach the monitor.

"Well now, where did you bring me this time?" he murmured. "New York, 1864." He grinned. "All right, that sounds like…fun…" Then, for the first time in a long time, he laughed out loud. "Haha! That sounds like fun! All right then, let's see what awaits us!"

Copper

"There 'e is!" Francis Maguire cried, proudly raising a mug of beer. "Come on, Corky, what kept you?!"

"Just catching up," Corcoran said and shrugged, relieved to be able to sit down and rest his leg. "Now then, give me that beer."

"Aw, no, mate, this is mine," Maguire informed him, indicating his mug. "But this!" He motioned for an entire keg to be rolled out to his friend. "This is for you, Corky!"

Andrew O'Brien, the third Musketeer so to speak, raised his mug in toast and everyone in the immediate vicinity did the same. Despite his bad mood, Corcoran found himself laughing and hardly questioning this sudden turn of events.

"So then, what brought this on?" Corcoran inquired drunkenly of Maguire. "I thought we were just here for a couple drinks and then maybe head back to Eva's place."

"Oh, Corky, we'll get to them later. Right now, we're just celebrating you coming back to the precinct."

"At the rate we're going through this keg, that may not happen for another couple weeks."

Unfortunately, his prediction did not ring true as Sargeant Byrnes entered the tavern and approached the detectives. He eyed their mirth disapprovingly, but controlled his tongue as he said, "I hate to interrupt, but we got a body."

O'Brien bestially bared his teeth and slammed his mug on the table. "Damn the Fates!"

"Forget the Fates," Corcoran said, though his tone suggested he secretly agreed. He grabbed his cane and struggled to his feet, a mixture of drunken unsteadiness and pain flashing through him. "This seems to be a good place as any to get going."

They grabbed Maguire, busily pursuing a woman through the tavern, and headed out into the night.

Doctor Who

Eager to be off on some grand adventure, it never quite occurred to the Doctor to first check the weather, and he rushed right into a thunderstorm in full strength and was momentarily blinded as lightning flashed in the sky.

"All right then," the Doctor said levelly. "So then, stuck in New York, 1864, in the middle of a rainstorm. What a wonderful idea."

Holding himself in sort of awkward embrace, he thought about going back to retrieve a better coat or at least a hat, but eventually decided against it. He was in an alley and figured there might be a fire he could sit beside out on the main street.

Indeed there was. The fire was small and the gathered people a bit grubby, but they did not appear unfriendly. In fact, they moved aside for him to sit down on a log bench.

"A bit wet, wouldn't you say?" he asked, trying to make conversation.

"Aye," the people murmured, not even glancing at him.

"So then, where am I?"

One man gave him the courtesy of a momentary, curious look. "You're in Five Points. You get lost on your way back to Fifth Avenue, did ya?"

From the accent, the Doctor surmised the man was Irish. The Doctor pursed his lips and shrugged. "Well, no. I mean, I'm not exactly from around here."

"I'll say you aren't," another man scoffed, studying him. "Your clothes…and your hair. Where are you from? We haven't done anything wrong."

"Where am I from? Well, far away. Far…far away."

The first man tried to say something, but a crash of thunder drowned out his words. And yet, while the Doctor couldn't hear the man, the wind carried another sound to him. One he knew well. But that was impossible, wasn't it? This was New York in the 19th century for crying out loud! What were they doing here? Ignoring the probing glances of the men around the fire, the Doctor stood and started in the direction of the impossible voice, blinded again by a bolt of lightning.

Down a different alley, and a left, straight, a right. Blazes, these alleys – this _Five Points_ was complicated. By the time he got to what he was certain of as the source, all that remained was a man face-down in the mud.

"Oh, no…"

He rushed toward the man, whipping out his sonic screwdriver as he did. All indications, dead.

Copper

"So, you heard a voice and just happened upon his body?" Corcoran inquired of the oddly-dressed stranger. "He's out of earshot of the main road, never mind the next alley. Hell, you're almost of earshot of me and we're not ten feet apart."

"Perhaps, but what was he doing in this alley?" the stranger wondered, kneeling by the body and frowning.

O'Brien shrugged. "Maybe 'e was out for a stroll."

"Maybe 'e was out with a woman," Maguire suggested.

"Or maybe he was out with you," Corcoran said coldly, poking the stranger with his cane.

The stranger sighed and stood. "Or maybe he was struck by lightning."

Corcoran poked the body once or twice with his cane and turned to his friends. It had that sort of burnt hair smell and crackled look unique to those affected by lightning or other electricity. "All right, load him up; I'll take him to Freeman in the morning."

"Can I come with you?" the stranger inquired, prancing after them. Idiot didn't even have a hat to protect him from the rain.

"No," Corcoran told him harshly.

"But I can help."

"No."

"But I'm the Doctor."

"No."

"But-"

Corcoran whirled on him, surprised to find he was only inches away. "I don't care who you are or what you can do or where you're from. Right now, I have a body. Not a case, but a body. And it deserves a proper burial, not an invasion by some gallivanting stranger in ridiculous, outlandish clothing!" Corcoran huffed. "Now then, I suggest you find yourself a good hat and a warm fire and have a nice night."

"But-"

"_Have a nice night."_

The pain of rejection was spelled out clearly on the Doctor's face, but Corcoran didn't give an inch until he was well out of sight. Corcoran glanced back at the body; even from the back, he knew this man. George Wilson, a friend of Robert Morehouse – friend or cousin, he couldn't actually remember. And the odds of Wilson being out in the rain were unlikely enough. The odds of him being out in the rain, in Five Points, in an alley, _and_ struck by lightning…about as likely as the Devil finally conquering the heavens.


	2. Close Quarters

**Welcome back for the second installment! The first chapter was written with labels in order to separate the scenes (better than a simple horizontal rule methinks) and, in addition, to familiarize you, the reader, with the different characters of the shows in case you aren't sure who comes from where. But now those labels are gone and the view is more multiple-3rd person limited, though there is definitely some omniscient viewing going on also. Just a forewarning.**

* * *

Matthew Freeman heard the horse and cart through the crisp morning air long before he saw it. His wife, Sara, tensed and made ready to leap for the pistol she always kept within leaping range. He held up a hand to calm her and stood from the table. He hoped it was just someone passing by and not Corcoran with another case. He liked the detective well enough, but he seemed to show up just at the most inconvenient times – breakfast time for example.

"Good morning, Detective," he greeted formally as the cart pulled up. "You know I make house calls?"

"I figured I would save you the trip," Corcoran replied, blinking rapidly in the dim morning light.

"I have something for that hangover, Detective."

"I'm more interested in something for my leg. And something for this poor fellow in the back."

Freeman sighed. "Of course, of course. What do you have?"

Corcoran limped to the cart, leaning quite heavily on the cane. Freeman strode over confidently and looked into the cart. Taking a breath, he pulled the cover back. The man had a smooth, pale face framed by the strangest mess of brown hair he'd ever seen. Suddenly, the eyes snapped open.

"Good morning!" he said, grinning widely.

"What the-?" Freeman gasped. "Corcoran, is this your idea of a joke?"

"You!" Corcoran snarled. "How did you get in there? Where is George?"

"Oh, no worries," the man said, sitting up and pulling the cover back farther to reveal a second man, the dead man Corcoran had brought for examination. "Aye, we've been getting to know each other quite well these last few hours."

"What kind of sick man lies in the back of a cart with a dead body?" Corcoran growled rhetorically.

"Oh, believe me, I've been in much closer quarters with creatures much worse than a _dead body_," the odd man said, rolling his eyes as if the information was common knowledge. He heaved himself over the side of the cart. "But, as I said, we've gotten to know each other quite well. And I have determined that he was murdered, not struck by lightning."

"And you are some kind of doctor?" Freeman asked.

"Not just _a_ doctor, good man, but _the_ Doctor."

"I see." Freeman gave him a look. "Corcoran, help me take him inside."

Much to their relief, the Doctor bounded away, taking some sort of metal stick out of his coat and waving it around the yard as he frolicked.

"Who is he?" Freeman demanded.

"Calls himself the Doctor," Corcoran grunted. "I don't know. He's the one who found the body last night and apparently doesn't know when to quit."

"But you agree with him."

"What?"

"You think he was murdered. If he was struck by lightning, you would turn the body over to the family, not bring it here to me, and especially not this early in the morning. So then, what's the story you think?"

"Do you know who this man is?" Corcoran asked in disbelief as they lay him on the table.

"George Wilson, a friend of Robert Morehouse if I'm not mistaken. Everyone knows him."

"He was in an alley in the rain, Matthew. Why was he there, and what are the odds that he would turn up dead?"

Freeman frowned. "Well, I suppose it might prompt a man to think."

"Of course!"

Freeman and Corcoran jumped as the Doctor sprung up out of nowhere.

"Jeez!" Freeman gasped. "Don't do that!"

"Of course! It all makes sense now!" the Doctor exclaimed, not paying attention to either of them.

"What does?" Corcoran dared ask.

"1864, the racial tensions between the Irish and African American immigrants. _That's_ why the good surgeon here is so far out in the country and has to do his work in his home. It is _also_ why you, Detective, can't make your medical reports as coming from Freeman because his word wouldn't be believed by your white superiors."

Freeman raised a brow. "Is that all?"

The Doctor was still grinning stupidly. "Yeah. I think so."

"Good. Now get out." The surgeon looked pointedly at Corcoran. "Both of you. I'll have it done by tomorrow, if there is anything to find."

"Thank you, doctor," Corcoran said, tipping his hat graciously before he left.

"You're welcome," the Doctor chuckled, tugging pompously on his jacket until he realized the detective had been addressing Freeman. His smile faded as he turned and dashed out of the house after Corcoran who was limping speedily toward the cart.

"Can I come with you?" the Doctor inquired.

"No," Corcoran told him.

"We can be a team!"

"I already have a team and their names are Maguire and O'Brien."

"Then we can be the Fantastic Four!"

Corcoran stopped and gave him an incredulous look. "The fantastic what?"

"The Fantastic Four! Oh, come on, Corky!"

The Doctor hadn't stopped smiling since he burst forth from the cart and by now it was sickening Corcoran who pushed past him and heaved himself up into the cart. "I don't need your help, Doctor." He gave him a look. "If that's what you really are."

He clicked the reins and the horse started off.

Not to be pushed aside, the Doctor nonchalantly brought out his sonic screwdriver and pointed it at the cart wheel as it went by, whistling innocently. The wheel creaked, splintered, and broke. The horse whinnied in surprise as the cart sank to one side; Corcoran cursed as he was thrown sideways. His cane slid out and onto the ground where the Doctor kicked it up into his hand.

"Fickle things these wheels," he said with mock-concern. "You really ought to choose the wood with care and then take care of it."

Still grumbling and cursing, Corcoran limped toward the Doctor and snatched back his cane.

"So then, looks like you'll be walking back to town, eh?"

Corcoran merely scowled and went back to the house to inform Freeman of the mess on the road and that he would send someone to clean it up. When he returned, the horse was already freed and pawing anxiously. She tossed her head and snorted when Corcoran approached.

"I imagine you'll need some help," the Doctor said, grinning.

"I can get up just fine," Corcoran told him grudgingly, mounting from the right side and trying to be ever so gentle with his leg. He reached for the reins but the Doctor held them and started walking, leading them at a pathetic pace.

"I know how to ride a horse," the detective informed him indignantly.

"If you won't let me help you on your case, at least let me assist you home."

Corcoran couldn't deny he liked the sound of that, and the slow pace was easy on his leg. More than that, there was no arguing with this stranger. Sighing, he grabbed the horse's mane and allowed himself to relax.

He'd expected the Doctor to be some non-stop talking fool, but the ride home was in fact quite uneventful and he arrived safely and still sane.

"I suppose I should thank you, Doctor," he said grudgingly. "Both for bringing me home and for alerting us to the body. But that's all. From here on, let the police figure it out. All right? You may be called to trial as a witness."

"But I didn't witness anything."

Corcoran gave him a look. "We'll see. Good day, Doctor."


	3. Daleks? Sounds Scandinavian

**In case you haven't noticed, new installments will be produced every Tuesday and Friday until the end. And so, unless something important comes up, this will be the last Note before the story. Enjoy!**

* * *

Freeman pulled the sheet back on George Wilson's body. The burnt hair smell still lingered like a fog and he still had the crackled look, but otherwise he seemed to be fine. Well, if you discounted the massive burn mark on his chest.

"Now then, you're sure he's not hanging around?" Freeman inquired.

"Absolutely," Corcoran told him. "I checked the cart several times, inside and out. He did not follow me here."

"You are correct, sir!"

The men jolted as the Doctor suddenly popped up a second time.

"Dammit, man, stop that!" Freeman spat.

"Where did you come from?!" Corcoran demanded.

"Far, far away," the Doctor said, bringing out his sonic screwdriver. "But you're not interested in that really, are you?" He pointed the sonic at the burn and waved it around, scanning.

"What have you got there?" Freeman inquired. "Not like any doctor's tool I've seen."

"Because I am a different kind of doctor." The scan finished, he read the results. "Yes, I know," he mumbled, "but why? How?"

The Doctor huffed and started pacing about the room, muttering unintelligibly to himself. Freeman raised a brow at Corcoran who shook his head and motioned for the surgeon to begin his explanation.

"No other injuries as far as I can tell," Freeman began. "But it wasn't lightning."

"How do you know?" Corcoran wondered.

"Lightning always has to be grounded. Even if it struck his head, it wouldn't come out his chest. And it couldn't have come out his chest because then there would be no body, only pieces."

"So what killed him?"

"Isn't it obvious?" the Doctor piped up. "No, of course not." He cleared his throat. "Daleks."

Corcoran blinked. "Daleks? Who are the Daleks? The only real name of influence around here is Morehouse."

"Could be a European name," Freeman suggested. "Or Scandinavian."

"Right." Corcoran suddenly snapped out of it. He raised a hand to his head and gave the Doctor a look. "Wait, wait, wait. What are you talking about anyway? Regardless of who did it – and you can be certain these 'Daleks' will be tracked down – how did they do it?"

"Ah…" For once the Doctor seemed to be at a loss for words. He gritted his teeth and struggled for words. Corcoran gave Freeman a sly grin, thanked him, and together hefted the body out to the newly-repaired cart.

"Thank you, Doctor Freeman," Corcoran said. "My apologies for the hitchhiker."

"He's been bothering both of us equally it seems," Freeman observed. "He ought to be the one apologizing."

"Well then, I better be off."

Freeman nodded once and headed back to his house. Corcoran glanced at the window. Sara stood there, pistol in hand. She was a quick shot, quicker to shoot than to trust. Now inside, Matthew put a hand on her shoulder and guided her deeper into their home. Corcoran set his cane down on the seat of the cart and hauled himself up. And when he looked up…

"Gah!"

"I've got it!" the Doctor said. "See, the Daleks use a special type of gun. It can kill without showing any sort of damage like a real gun; it mimics a natural cause."

"Poorly mimics."

"You fell for it."

"Were he any other man, I would have dismissed it, yes. But George Wilson is a cousin of the Morehouses, who are very powerful around here."

"So you have said. But why him? If the Morehouses are so powerful, why go after a cousin? Intimidation?"

Corcoran barked a laugh. "Ha! Robert is easily intimidated, but he hides behind his father like the little boy he is. And his father is a man who does the intimidating, and anyone who tries to do so to him has another thing coming."

"Ah. So is he the one who broke your leg?"

"What? No, no. That was…that was someone else."

"Who?"

"A man now long dead. What's it to you?"

"He did it himself?"

"No; he hired some thugs to try to kill me. But they wouldn't dare shoot a cop – not at first anyway. They broke my leg, then threatened my arms. But I got the gun away before them and kindly saw them out. Like I said, what's it to you?"

"What if Wilson did something against Morehouse? The Daleks are about as significant to you as the price of tea in China."

"What about tea in China?"

"Never mind. But what if?"

Corcoran frowned. "I don't find it likely. The man who masterminded my near-death, Haverford, worked for Morehouse, and Morehouse knew what he was up to, the reason I was after him. And he tolerated it. I don't think he cared as long as he got what he wanted."

"And what did he want?"

"I don't know."

"Do you think it likely that he would send someone after his own family?"

"On Fifth Avenue, anything is possible."

"Not Five Points?"

Now the Doctor startled as Corcoran burst into laughter, loud and pure. "What? You think that because I am a detective that I get to live in such posh estates? You clearly are a foreigner. Fifth Avenue is for the rich…and the corrupt. Five Points is for people like myself. The immigrants – Irish, Italian, Bavarian, Negro – all live in Five Points. Where did you say you were from?"

"None of those places, I assure you."

By now they were about to town.

"I think I may have to discuss some business with Mr. Morehouse," the Doctor murmured, more to himself than anyone else. "Have you already informed him of his cousin's death?"

"Aye, yesterday. Now that the body has been examined, it can be buried." Corcoran pursed his lips. "And I don't expect you'll get an audience with Mr. Morehouse. You'll be lucky to get an audience with his butler."

"I see. Well, I have my ways with people."

"You'll need more than that with Mr. Morehouse."

The contrast between the muddy alleys of Five Points and the indeed posh estates of Fifth Avenue were quite apparent, and not just from the paved streets, lack of fires, and gleaming houses. No, the very air seemed to have changed, as if the air breathed was morally better. No, more than that, it might give a Five Points resident the sort of impression that one had to ask _permission_ to breathe this sacred air. The Doctor found it a little unnerving.

"A little intimidating, isn't it?" Corcoran chuckled. "Like I said, Morehouse is the one who does the intimidating around here."

"You weren't kidding or exaggerating," the Doctor murmured.

"Here we are, then."

Corcoran limped up the steps and clicked the knocker. He had to wait only a moment before the butler answered.

"Ah, Detective Corcoran," the butler acknowledged. "I will let Mr. Morehouse know you are here."

"I am only here to deliver the body of his beloved cousin, George Wilson," Corcoran informed him, and not without a hint of malice woven into the sarcasm. There were no 'beloved' relatives or friends to the Morehouses, only useful ones.

"I see; I will send the servants out to fetch the body. You do not appear yet to be in such a condition to handle the weight."

"I thank you for your consideration."

The butler merely raised a brow as he summoned a few tough men to bear the dead weight from the cart into the home for burial preparation. Corcoran tipped his hat and got onto the cart. The Doctor had slipped off and now stood facing the house with a most peculiar expression, his eyes and nose scrunched, jaw open sideways as if studying the estate. The butler kept his brow raised but shifted his gaze to the Doctor momentarily before moving to shut the door.

"No, no, no, wait!"

The Doctor made it up the steps in two incredible bounds and just got his foot inside the door. He forced a weak smile to cover the pain lancing through his ankle. The butler sighed and let him just inside.

"Sorry, I was a bit distracted," the Doctor said. "I'm here to see Mr. Morehouse."

"And you are?"

A simple sight of psychic paper convinced the butler of his significance. "I see, sir," the butler conceded. "Right this way."

The Doctor was led through a house as grand as could be in the 1860s with all manner of expensive woods and artworks. They approached grand double doors where the butler bade him wait a moment. It took in fact several moments for the door to reopen and half a dozen men exit, including the butler.

"Mr. Morehouse will see you now."


	4. John Periwinkle, Urban Developer

"All right, Mr. Periwinkle, you've got my attention," Mr. Morehouse said grudgingly. "What do you want?"

"Periwinkle?" the Doctor said, glancing at the psychic paper. John Periwinkle, Urban Developer. Of all the strange names the paper had given him, he never imagined anything so…dull and stereotypical as _Periwinkle._

"Where did you say you were from again, John? May I call you John?"

This man had the sort of authoritative air around him that the Doctor could only say, "You may, and I am from Gal…" He only just caught himself. "Galveston. Lovely place out west; you'd love it. Wide open space; you don't even have to try to buy out other developers. Well, except me. Because it's all out there for the taking."

"I see." Mr. Morehouse raised a brow, his expression bored but unable to disguise the glitter of excitement in his eyes. "So then, what brings you to me?"

The Doctor grinned. "An alliance."

"Alliance?"

"Word of your incredible exploits has reached far, even to my ears. And that is far indeed. Though I would ask just what are you doing?"

Morehouse grinned. "I like you, John, a man after my own heart – greedy, conniving, trying to sweet-talk a man into just handing over his dreams and ambitions like secrets to be shared freely at an open bar."

"You're good," the Doctor breathed. "You are very good. I like a man like you, a man who can see through men like that."

Sighing, Morehouse grabbed a bottle of brandy. He poured a glass without offering to the Doctor. He frowned, studied the drink for a moment, then upended. He then studied the empty glass like he couldn't quite figure out what happened to the drink inside. Pouring himself another glass, he approached the Doctor, walking like a man who owned the world.

"You may have fooled my butler, Mr. Periwinkle – if that is indeed your name – but you'll not fool me. So let's drop the act. I am a stern businessman with a lot of work to do. But who…" He drank. "-are you?"

The Doctor chuckled. "You tell me; you seem to be the expert."

"I don't think you are an Urban Developer, regardless of what papers you may have. And I don't think you are from Galveston, wherever that may be. So then, let's start with who you really are, hm?" He drank again.

"I'm the Doctor."

"Ah…" Morehouse grinned and it was quite disconcerting. "So you're the one."

"The one? Was I expected?"

"You see, Doctor, I did actually form an alliance when I became wealthy and moved here. I buy up Five Points for my partner and I get to keep all ensuing profits." Morehouse sat and leaned back comfortably in his chair behind his desk. He tapped the opened map with a ringed finger. "Sounds like a bloody good deal to me."

"And how do I fit in?"

"My partner warned me of someone who might try to interfere with our plans, call himself the Doctor. This Doctor would be awkward but incredibly suave, persuasive, inviting himself in like a king and extracting information like a lover."

The Doctor raised a brow. "A lover? Never been called that before." He grimaced. "Not sure I like the sound of that."

"My partner also told me that if this Doctor were to ever come upon my door…" Still holding his brandy, Morehouse opened a drawer and extracted a pistol. "-that I should shoot him. So then, you've got exactly ten seconds to tell me why I shouldn't shoot you or else try to run. So which'll it be, Doctor? One. Two."

"Who is your partner?"

"None of your concern, I'm afraid. Four. Five."

"Now hold on!" The Doctor advanced on the desk, but stopped when Morehouse pulled the hammer back.

"This isn't just any gun, Doctor. My partner gave it to me especially for you. They say you won't die by any ordinary gun, nor a single shot. Believe me, Doctor, I have no problem shooting any man who stands in the way of my plans. Eight. Nine."

"All right, I'm leaving, I'm leaving," the Doctor said, opening one of the double doors and slipping out. He poked his head back in. "But know that I will find out who your partner is and what your plans are. Did your partners also inform you of my persistence, because that would be a terrible thing to not know when you rush into something-"

The wood of the door just above his head suddenly splintered.

"Yes, they did, Doctor," Morehouse told him. "And I've got five more bullets. Eventually, one of them will hit."

"Takes more than one," the Doctor informed him with a nervous grin. The door closed as he ran, but not before it splintered a second time. Halfway down the corridor, he skidded to a halt and turned around. He sonic-ed the door from a distance for good measure and then tried to walk calmly back to the front door where the butler nodded once and opened the door where fresh air awaited.

"Good day, sir," the butler said formally.

"Aye," the Doctor murmured absently. "Your master may have a slight problem with his door, however. He should really get that seen to."

The butler seemed at a loss as the Doctor skipped down the steps to the street and walked away. He didn't know quite where to go, or even where he was. Eventually he just sauntered back the way he and the detective had come in; he had to hit a familiar landmark somewhere around here. In the meantime, he had to think.

Who knew enough about him to know he couldn't be killed by an ordinary gun and that it would take multiple hits? It certainly narrowed down the list, but there were too many variables. What interest was Five Points to aliens? What use did the men around the fire have to them?

He did not do as much thinking as he would have liked; eventually his mind just went blank and he walked. And walked. The cobblestone streets broke down and became slick mud. The sun was beginning to set when he was jerked from his mental abyss. The window pane to a tavern suddenly broke, some metal object flying into the street. Well, he never could resist a good old-fashioned bar brawl.

Said brawl was just drawing to a close as the Doctor entered, one man unconscious and the other roaring his victory like some primitive beast. The patrons of the tavern were cheering, drinking, and clapping the victor on the back. One such man was the detective.

"Ah! Corky, there you are!" the Doctor exclaimed and approached the man. He was sitting with two others, presumably his detective partners.

"You again!" Corcoran cried. "Did you find what you were looking for at Morehouse's?"

"Morehouse?" one sputtered. "He keeps some strange company. No offense to you, sir."

"Come on, Maguire," the third man, considerably more sober, said and cuffed his friend to the ear. "You realize now you have to buy his drink."

"That's quite all right, never touch the stuff," the Doctor told them. "Actually, I was hoping to speak to Corky here."

"Doctor, can't you see I'm busy?" Corcoran said, looking at him with surprisingly clear eyes. "Maybe later we can talk. But for now…" A woman with red hair came, gently pushed the Doctor aside, and sat on Corcoran's lap. "…I'm a little busy."

"Yes, I can see that you are. Well then, forgive my intrusion. Gentlemen."

Maguire and O'Brien lifted their mugs to him but were quickly distracted by women of their own. Resisting the urge to grimace all the way out the door, the Doctor turned and headed out. A few women tried to get close to him, but he was in no mood to even think about entertaining any ideas, and a look made that clear to them. He made it to the street and continued to wander, his mind uncharacteristically blank.


	5. The Houseguest

Corcoran lit a few lamps and then a cigarette before collapsing on the couch, making sure to put his leg up. The moon was high in the sky yet, but he had to get at least a little sleep tonight. He exhaled a cloud of smoke into the lamplight, fascinated by the patterns of swirling smoke. When it cleared, he nearly jumped out of his skin at the sight of the stranger. He reached for his gun but the man spoke.

"Please, Detective, I mean you no harm."

"Doctor," Corcoran sighed. "Shit, don't do that! I don't fancy getting my other leg broken."

"So this is how they did it?" the Doctor wondered, stepping into better light. "They just walked right in and broke your leg?"

"More or less. And with your little stunt, I'm thinking about locking my doors from now on."

"My apologies; I did not mean to frighten you."

"Hell you didn't." Corcoran took a good drag and exhaled. "What do you want? Did you bend Morehouse to your…superhuman suavity?"

"Hm…didn't work as well as I had hoped."

"In other words, you underestimated him and got shown the door by his butler."

"No, I got shown the door by his pistol."

"Well." Another drag. "You got yourself a real problem now. Morehouse don't let nobody off with just a warning shot. The fact that he did with you just says he has something even worse planned for later if he gets his paws on you – which he will."

The Doctor sighed, leaned against the wall, and folded his arms.

"So then, what did you find out?" Corcoran inquired after a moment of silence.

"Not enough," the Doctor admitted. "But I did notice a map on his desk and some neighborhoods circled."

"Nothing new. The Morehouse family made their fortunes buying and selling."

"Buying and selling what exactly?"

Corcoran hesitated. "Anything and everything I suppose, especially now during the war. Precious metals are popular for the wealthy these days and Robert has taken an almost unhealthy interest in it; real estate brokerage wouldn't come across as a surprise to anyone." He furrowed his brows. "I don't suppose you noticed which neighborhoods exactly?"

"I was unable to get that close before he pulled a gun on me."

Corcoran extinguished his cigarette. "And we're talking in circles. You still have a problem. You had a problem as soon as you walked into that house."

"Well, you're the detective. What do I do now?"

Said detective gave him a look. "If you're looking for a place to stay for the night, I know several cozy little inns."

"Define 'cozy,' " the Doctor said tartly.

"All right, so if women aren't your thing, I know a few other little inns."

"Oh, but what fun would that be?" the Doctor chuckled, finding a spark of mischief somewhere deep inside him. "My place is to protect and serve; surely you know how that goes? I could stand guard for you to make sure no one else just meanders on in here."

"No, I think you're looking for protection if Morehouse sends someone after you."

The Doctor frowned and shrugged. "Well if you're offering."

Corcoran shook his head and looked away. "Fine." He grabbed his cane and stood. "Take the couch if you must; I can see there is no dissuading you. But I warn you…Morehouse isn't the only one with a pistol around here."

"Duly noted, Detective. Good night."

Surprise. The first thing Corcoran felt when he woke the following morning. He was still alive. The Doctor hadn't tried anything. Why had he doubted the odd man in the first place? He couldn't remember.

His surprise continued to expand as he descended the steps, but he could not identify it for a brief moment. Then he realized he wasn't cold. Indeed, the whole house was incredibly warm and a tantalizing smell wafted from the kitchen.

"Good morning, Corky!" the Doctor exclaimed as Corcoran wandered into the kitchen. Bread, butter, eggs and cheese were all laid out on the table. "I hope you don't mind; I decided to repay your hospitality. A good old-fashioned country breakfast is just what you need to start your day! Unfortunately, you're out of orange juice."

"Orange juice?" Corcoran asked stupidly.

"A joke, Corky." The Doctor slapped him on the back as he sat down. "Lighten up."

"How long have you been up?"

The Doctor leaned against the doorframe. "I never slept. I stayed up all night, on guard, just like I promised. When it gets lighter, you will find the living room is absolutely spotless."

"But why?"

"Like I said, I wanted to repay your hospitality. And cleaning helps me think. And cooking, I love cooking."

"So what were you thinking about?" Corcoran inquired as he started in on the eggs.

"My 'conversation' with Mr. Morehouse. Something is there; I just can't put my finger on it."

"A good night's sleep might help."

"No, I don't sleep. Well, not often. Well, sometimes. Well-"

"All right, fine. But did you find any sort of enlightenment?"

The Doctor frowned. "Not precisely."

"And what the hell does that mean?"

"Morehouse has partners."

"Mistresses are not uncommon for the upper class; really, it's just a fancier term for 'whore.'" At this, Corcoran chuckled.

"I mean a business partner."

The detective nearly choked on his food. "A business partner? He said that? Doctor, there are no beloved relatives to the Morehouses, only useful ones, and the same goes for anyone who decides to engage in business dealings with them."

"Well, he said business partner. Yes, partner."

"What's in it for him?"

"Supposedly, Morehouse does the dirty work for his partners, buying and selling and whatnot. His 'partners' become the owners and he gets a full return on the profits."

"Sounds like a hell of a deal, and one Morehouse would not pass up."

"Yes, but…" The Doctor paused, wondering how much he should divulge. Finally he decided to bring the man into nearly-full confidence. "Morehouse was expecting my arrival."

"Oh?" Corcoran did not sound particularly interested.

"His partners warned him that I might turn up one day and even supplied him with a specialized gun to kill me."

"Are you a dangerous man, Doctor?"

That stopped him. He opened his mouth to answer, but could not find one. He wasn't…_really_ dangerous was he? He was just a mad man with a box. He had only a sonic screwdriver for a weapon, though it wasn't really a weapon. It didn't kill, didn't burn, didn't maim, but it was very good…

"Of course…" the Doctor whispered.

"You say something, Doctor?" Corcoran asked around a mouthful of toast.

"Haha!" The Doctor clapped his hands and laughed. "Of course! That's it! That explains everything!"

Corcoran turned in his chair and wiped crumbs from his mouth. "Care to let your host in on the secret?"

"The Daleks…Morehouse…it all makes perfect sense now!"

"Great! What is it?!"

"Come on, Corky, we have to pay another visit to Mr. Morehouse!"

"What for?!" Corcoran struggled to stand and move quickly with his cane. "And what the hell is going on?!"

The Doctor stopped and gasped. He turned back and grabbed Corcoran's shoulders. "Oh, no, you can't come. Well, you could. If you wanted."

"I'm a detective; whatever it is, I can handle it."

"Oh, Corky, you're going to be so saddened by what you may find."

Corcoran looked away for a moment, then met him with a steely gaze. "I assure you, Doctor, only one thing could drive me to madness, and it has nothing to do with Morehouse or his business partners."

"I see. Well then." The Doctor produced Corcoran's hat. "We better get going. Early bird gets the worm and all that."

"Early bird gets the worm?"

The Doctor clapped him on the back again. "Another joke, Corky. You really must learn to lighten up."


	6. Revelations

"Detective Corcoran," the butler said respectfully. He raised a brow. "Mr. Periwinkle."

"Is Mr. Morehouse available?" Corcoran asked.

"He is in his study." He gave a pointed glance at the Doctor. "He gave me specific instructions to refuse your audience."

"He's with me. He won't cause any trouble."

The Doctor flashed a grin at the butler who nodded once and led them back through the house toward the study. The doors still bore the bullet holes from the previous day. Corcoran gave the Doctor a searching glance to which he gave another one of his winning smiles. The butler bid them wait as he entered the room to inform his master of their presence.

"You _won't_ cause trouble, will you, um, Mr. Periwinkle?" Corcoran wondered.

"No more than necessary," the Doctor assured him.

"Why do I not find comfort in that?"

"He will receive you," the butler said, emerging from the study. He glanced at the Doctor. "Both of you."

"Thank you," Corcoran said politely, dragging the Doctor in before any snappish argument could ensue.

Mr. Morehouse was at his desk, standing, poring over a map. Corcoran sauntered in nonchalantly, like he was visiting an old friend and not the most powerful man in New York. But the Doctor was tense, scanning the room with a piercing gaze.

"Welcome, Detective Corcoran. Doctor," Mr. Morehouse said, not looking up from his map. "Who came at whose behest?"

"I am here about the murder of your cousin," Corcoran told him casually.

"My son's cousin." Now he looked up, a totally innocent and curious expression on his face, one that almost made the two guests doubt themselves. "And I thought it was ruled a lightning strike. Or have there been further developments of which I am not aware?"

"Oh you are quite aware, I think," the Doctor said coldly, approaching the desk and gripping the rim with curled fingers. "You know George Wilson did not die of a lightning strike. The same business 'partners' who equipped you with that gun, killed your cousin."

"My _son's_ cousin, Doctor."

"He could be your dog's cousin for all I care, Mr. Morehouse, but that does not change the facts."

"And what are the facts?"

"That you allied yourself with a race known as the Daleks for reasons I can only guess at right now. But those reasons can't be good, and they know me well enough to know that I would try to stop you so they give you a weapon specifically outfitted against me."

Morehouse sighed. "I am disappointed in you both. Can't we just say it was a lightning strike and be done with it? I even paid off the local doctors to say so. But no, you have to find your own doctor, don't you, Corky?" He glanced at the Doctor. "And you, always sticking your nose in where it doesn't belong."

"The Daleks are my oldest enemies, Mr. Morehouse. I think that makes this investigation my business."

"That's Five Points," Corcoran said suddenly.

The Doctor glanced at the map and more pieces, if not all, of the puzzle fell into place.

"Yes, of course," he breathed.

"What is Five Points to you?" Corcoran demanded of Morehouse.

"It's not Five Points, Detective," the Doctor said. "And it means nothing to him. But their proximity to Wall Street means everything to the Daleks."

Mr. Morehouse shifted his weight to his back leg. "Hum…I had quite hoped we might avoid a rather unpleasant confrontation, but you have pushed us past that point, Doctor." He opened a drawer in his desk and cast a menacing grin the Doctor who did not flinch, but watched his every movement. Instead of a gun, however, Morehouse produced a small communication device, hundreds of years ahead of his time.

"The jig is up, gentlemen," he said into it.

Two more doors in the room opened and Daleks – solid, unaltered, real Daleks – entered the room, humming and shifting but otherwise silent. Corcoran startled and drew his gun.

"No, don't provoke them," the Doctor said, putting a hand on the gun.

The Daleks surrounded them. Morehouse withdrew his special gun and moved in front of his desk. "Well, Doctor, surely you have figured it out by now?"

"Well?" Corcoran asked fearfully.

"In the very near future, Wall Street becomes the largest banking and investing center in the world, trading with lands once far away."

"As far as Galveston, Doctor?" Morehouse taunted. "Or should I say…Gallifrey?"

Fire erupted in the Doctor and he took several threatening steps toward Morehouse, pointing at him. "Don't you _dare_…"

Morehouse merely pressed the gun under the Doctor's chin and pulled back the hammer. "You can't threaten me here, Doctor. Now then, if you would, please continue." He pressed the barrel harder into his chin to make a point. The Doctor glared at him but stepped back into the circle.

"Wall Street becomes very powerful, Detective, trading far away and essentially controlling the entire fortune of the world. The fortune…and the future. My guess is that the Daleks want to 'buy up' the land surrounding Wall Street so as to establish a presence in the past so they can control the growth of Wall Street for their own gain."

"You are correct, Doctor," the mechanical voice of one of the Daleks said. This Dalek was black instead of gold like the rest; its eye shifted up and down as it spoke.

"Well now, Dalek-Khan, is that you?" the Doctor wondered, peering into the eye and suddenly delighted. "By the Fates, it is you! How long has it been, anyway? My goodness, it has been a long time, at least one regeneration. So this is where your emergency temporal shift brought you."

"Familiarity is irrelevant," Dalek-Khan squawked. "You will be exterminated!"

"Exterminate! Exterminate!" the rest chimed in.

"Now hold on a moment!" the Doctor said, holding up his hands for silence. "You haven't even revealed your master plan to me yet. Isn't that what you always do?"

"You solved it for yourself, Doctor," Dalek-Khan told him. "We will control this world's crude and inefficient banking system and make it more like Dalek. Then we will make all the humans like Daleks. And all incompliant humans like George Wilson will be exterminated. As you will soon be exterminated."

"Yes, but I don't understand why you need Five Points to do that. Wall Street will develop on its own, regardless of what you do."

"This crude environment will be destroyed to be replaced with Dalek environment to process the humans."

The Doctor glanced at Corcoran who still had his gun out but was yet paralyzed with fear and wonder, trying to process everything he was seeing and learning. Morehouse, however, seemed perfectly at ease.

"And what about you, Morehouse?" the Doctor inquired. "You really expect to be someone excluded from their plans? Do you think you will be regarded as somehow special, an exception to their extermination of the human race, of all races? Shall I tell you about the last man Dalek-Khan killed, what happened to him?"

Morehouse shrugged. "Their plan has many years until fruition, Doctor, and I am but a man growing old. But I am making extraordinary wealth off their plan which I will pass to my son and him to his son and so on. We will be long gone by the time they do anything."

"So you would sell out humanity for a few thousand dollars?" Corcoran asked, finding his voice, squeaky though it was.

"I don't settle for thousands, Detective, and I was hard-pressed to settle for millions. But if what the Daleks say is true, a couple million dollars now will one day make my family the richest and most powerful in the world."

"What world? There will be no world under the Daleks!" the Doctor cried.

"There will be a world, Doctor," Dalek-Khan said. "It will be a Dalek world. The Daleks will rebuild our home world. Unlike you, Doctor."

The fire which had died to smoldering embers suddenly leaped back to life and he went eye to eye with Dalek-Khan. "You are really pushing it today, Dalek-Khan. You and your little human slave, Morehouse."

"I am no one's slave, Doctor," Morehouse informed him. "I came into this agreement of my own free will." He took one confident step after another toward the Doctor. "And yes, I do know what happened to the last man Dalek-Khan encountered, the human-Dalek hybrids and the whole fiasco. I am aware of their hatred of all things not Dalek. And they have made me fully aware of the Last Great Time War against your people, Doctor, against the Time Lords. As I recall, your people lost and you are the very last of your kind." Morehouse grinned. "The last Time Lord, soon to become the _late_ Time Lord. How does that make you feel?"

But even as Morehouse started talking, reciting a few brief moments in Dalek history and ultimately leading to the Last Great Time War, the Doctor felt his confidence and his will slipping. His mind, which had been oddly blank the last couple nights, was suddenly filled with painful memories. The Last Great Time War, all the companions he'd had and loved and lost, everything coming to the surface.

"Doctor?" Corcoran laid a hand on his shoulder.

"I feel bad for you, Corcoran," Morehouse went on, brushing the Doctor and his memories aside. "I mean, you're just a lowly detective from Five Points. You miss your wife and daughter, love a drink and a good whore, and just got caught up with the wrong man. A shameful thing, really, but then…people go missing all the time."

With that, Morehouse snatched Corcoran's cane from his hand and whacked him on the leg, the one only recently mended. Corcoran cried out and crumbled to his knees. Morehouse regarded him for a moment and dropped the cane beside him. Resetting the pistol, he tucked it away and back behind his desk. "My regrets, Detective, truly. Doctor…" He shrugged. "What can I say? You just got in the way." He lifted his chin to address Dalek-Khan. "Take them away; do with them however you see fit."

"Exterminate! Exterminate!" the Daleks cried.

Dalek-Khan ordered them away however, back through one of the doors. The Doctor, still swallowed up by his memories, and Corcoran, stumbling along on his cane, were herded into darkness.


	7. The Interloper

"Father? Is everything all right?"

Robert Morehouse poked his head through the double doors; his father was _still_ going over those blasted maps. Surely the man knew them by heart by now?

"Why wouldn't it be?" Mr. Morehouse wondered, looking up and frowning.

"I thought I heard raised voices," Robert said, stepping gingerly into the room and closing the doors. He frowned at the splintered wood. "Was there a fight of some sort or did the doors just randomly explode?"

"I am telling you, Robert, everything is fine."

"The butler says Detective Corcoran was here, along with a man called Periwinkle. Where are they?"

"Look around, Robert; I'm sure they're around here somewhere."

"People don't come here to look at the artwork, Father, and you make sure they are either in your study or outside. So then, where are they?"

Morehouse gave his son a hostile glare. "Maybe they let themselves out, I don't know, nor do I care. Now then, Robert, as you can see, everything is fine and I have some serious business matters to attend to."

Robert frowned. "Of course, Father. My mistake. I shall be on my way. Have you contacted anyone about fixing these doors?"

"I have."

"Oh. Well then. Good day."

His father did not reply except to shuffle some papers and relax in his chair. Robert took a last glance before heading out the double doors. No one went missing from their home, Robert knew, without his father knowing about it or even orchestrating it.


	8. Laughter of Dead Men

Corcoran had always secretly suspected Morehouse had a dungeon underneath his home where he kept all his business rivals and enemies, but to actually see it made his heart leap into his throat, his stomach drop, and his bowels threaten to loose. Knowing that _he_ was the one to be locked up was not helping matters either.

The dungeon was not large, only two rooms, both lit by torches in cast iron sconces. The larger room was bare stone furnished only with manacles on the ceiling and floor. The second and smaller room, where they were eventually herded, had manacles all around on the walls. At the "insistence" of the Daleks, Corcoran and the Doctor were made to strip to only their drawers before they were shackled to opposite walls. They were not even given the luxury of sitting as the chains were just short enough that their bottoms would just float over the stone. Such a position would cause too much stress on their shoulders, however, so they elected to stand.

"So then, what's your plan?" Corcoran asked the Doctor acidly.

"Oh, there is no plan," a new voice cut in.

Corcoran knew that voice. That was the voice of the man who broke his leg, or at least the ringleader.

"Well, well, well," the lead man chuckled, coming into a little better light. "We meet again, eh, Corky? I told you we'd be back, and now we're going to finish the job. First we're going to break your arms, just like I promised."

"And who is this 'I'?" the Doctor interrupted.

The lead man did not turn, but one of his two goons did and did not even blink before punching the Doctor in the stomach. He groaned but resisted the urge to slump too far.

"We're your executioners," he spat. "But we may as well have a bit of fun beforehand."

"Unchain me," Corcoran threatened, "and I'll show you fun."

The ringleader merely grinned and started away, his thugs following.

"Cowards!" Corcoran shouted after them. "You won't do it because you know I would win in a fair fight!"

The men only laughed as they left.

"So then, how do you propose to get us out of this?"

The Doctor sighed, still reeling from the punch. "I don't know. If I had my sonic screwdriver…but I don't." He coughed and was silent for a minute or two. "I really don't know, Corcoran, and I am sorry to have dragged you into this. This…this is my feud and I brought you into it. And now, you'll never see your wife or daughter again."

Corcoran frowned. "I never expected to, really." The Doctor glanced at him. "They're gone, Doctor. When I finally got home from the war, I found my daughter murdered and my wife was missing. I've been desperately searching for them, but to no avail. Not even a clue as to where she might be or even what happened. My death…will be mourned by no one." He let out a breath. "And what about you?"

"Hm?"

"Morehouse touched a nerve with you, too, Doctor. What was he saying, about the Last Great Time War? You and these 'Daleks' or something?"

"Yeah."

"Where did he say you were from? Gal…Gal…"

"Gallifrey."

"Is it a long way from here?" Corcoran meant it as a joke, but quickly regretted it when he saw the Doctor's expression.

"It _was_ a long way from here. Now it's gone. My people, the Time Lords, fought a war with the Daleks." He sighed and shook his head. "It was so…bad. I was never so scared in my life; and in all my regenerations since, all my travels, all my daring escapades, none have been able to even come close to what I felt during that time. I watched my family…and all my friends…the home I loved go up in flames, all the tune of 'Exterminate!'"

"If it's too hard to talk about it, I won't pry," Corcoran told him sympathetically.

"No, no. Well, yes, it does still hurt. In nine hundred years, this is a pain that never really goes away. But everyone I have ever told has been sympathetic. Oh, I brush it off, say 'I'm fine; I'm always fine.'"

"But you're not fine."

"No. However much I refuse sympathy, I am so grateful that someone understands, or at least pretends to. And then Morehouse…he knows and understands, but cares nothing about it." The Doctor took a shaky breath. "He truly is a heartless man." He nodded, more to himself than anything. "He truly is Dalek. I can see how and why they came into business together."

Corcoran forced a laugh. "If I hadn't seen all this for myself, I would have dismissed you as a mad man."

"But I am mad," the Doctor chuckled, feeling a small sense of life trickling back into him. "I'm just a mad man with a box, travelling throughout all of time and space."

"Oh? I don't recall any sort of box, just your little metal…what did you call it?"

"Sonic screwdriver."

"Aye, just your sonic screwdriver." Corcoran found himself grinning and the Doctor could only return it. "What the hell does that thing do anyway? I mean you just…" The detective futilely flicked his hand around in the manacle and tried to do a bad impression of the whirring sound the sonic made. It was so bad they both ended up laughing. The Doctor did a bad impression of Corcoran's bad impression and it went back and forth until their ribs hurt from laughter.

"Oh! Oh, my hearts! My lungs! I can't…I can't breathe!" the Doctor gasped.

"Speak for yourself!" Corcoran sputtered. "How many hearts do Time Lords have?"

"Two!"

That set off another round of gasping laughter. To any outsider in any other place, they may have been mistaken for severely intoxicated men, not men on death row laughing for the sake of laughter and trying to drive away the fear. Indeed, this was the laughter of dead men.

"You will cease laughter!"

Corcoran and the Doctor looked up as the three "executioners" entered the room, followed by a couple of Daleks, but they could not stop laughing.

"Cease laughter!" the Daleks ordered. "Cease now!"

Indeed, the laughter by now was hardly more than desperate coughing and gasping for breath as if after nearly drowning. When at last they caught their breath, the silence that followed was not a pleasant one. It was not so much that the laughter had gone as it had been forcibly sucked out of the room.

"Exterminate the human," one Dalek ordered.

The thugs moved toward Corcoran whose eyes had gone wide with fear. The Doctor lashed out, rattling his chains, but could not reach far enough.

"No! Noooo!" the Doctor snarled. "Don't you dare harm him! Take me! Take meeee!"

"Stop!" the Daleks commanded.

The thugs had just unlocked one of Corcoran's wrists but they stopped as ordered and waited for instructions. The Daleks looked at each other, their caps moving back and forth, the eye pieces up and down as they communicated some silent message. After a moment, they looked back at the thugs.

"Leave the human," the second Dalek commanded. "Bring the Doctor."

Corcoran's wrist was locked back up and the thugs turned to the Doctor. While they were distracted, Corcoran bunched his abs and kicked out at the thugs, grunting at the impact to his leg. Taken by surprise, all three stumbled, two into the wall, one into the Doctor. As one of them stumbled back, Corcoran lashed out again and managed to fumble one of the thugs into a grip between his legs. The Doctor, catching on, tried to do the same but the remaining thugs danced out of the way.

"You will cease this behavior!" the first Dalek said. "Release the human!"

"Release me first!" Corcoran demanded.

"Detective…" the Doctor hissed.

Corcoran had to act fast; his leg couldn't hold out much longer. As if sensing this, the ringleader brought out his gun and hit him on his wound with the butt. Corcoran cried out and released his captive. As he cried out, the third thug punched him in the face. Blood started dribbling from his nose and he slumped partway down the wall, coughing. As the three men gathered around him to deal more damage, the Daleks approached.

"You will cease! Wait to torture the human. Take the Doctor."

The thugs seemed reluctant, but they did as they were ordered.

"Think about that for a while," one of them growled.

The Doctor was released from the manacles on the wall, the thugs threatening him will all manners of horrendous tortures if he tried anything also.

"Silence!" the Daleks screeched excitedly. "Bring the Doctor!"


	9. Exterminate

**It was brought to my attention, an egregious error, that I misspelled Dalek-"Caan". I apologize for anyone reeling in his seat. The mistakes have been corrected. Thank you.**

* * *

The Doctor stumbled along into the next room, headed by the thugs and followed by the Daleks. He paused at the door of the larger room. Somehow, the fires of the torches burned hotter and bigger than before. The thugs impatiently grabbed his arms and dragged him to the center of the room. They hoisted him up and shackled his wrists to the manacles in the ceiling; his ankles were bound by the manacles on the floor.

When all the locks were secured, the thugs stepped back to admire their handiwork. The ringleader stepped forward and punched the Doctor in the stomach as hard as possible. The Doctor cried out, but he was stretched as far as he could go; he could not curl up or protect the injured area.

"Aye…" one thug said, grinning. "I think I'm gonna like this."

"Exterminate the Doctor!" the Daleks commanded impatiently.

"Aye, keep your…balls on," the ringleader said, rolling his eyes. "We'll get to it in our own time. Just let us have a little fun." He glanced at the Doctor. "And from what I'm told, you have two hearts. So if we make a mistake the first time, we get a second chance."

But the Doctor was figuring something else. His brows furrowed for a moment and he looked at the Daleks.

"Wait. Hold on just a moment. You are asking _them_ to exterminate me?" He gave them a look. "In all our encounters, you have _never_ given that honor to someone else. You are always the ones who want to exterminate me, why are you letting these…petty gangbangers do it for you? What would Dalek-Caan say?"

"You will cease talking!"

"And where is Dalek-Caan anyway? What happened to all those Daleks from the study? Are they hiding around here somewhere? There had to be at least a dozen, maybe more."

"Cease…"

"And now it's just you two. And these…fine…gentlemen…"

"Cease talking!"

The Doctor opened his mouth to speak again, but all that came out was a squeak as he was punched again. His muscles contracted but he could still do nothing. He sucked in a breath through his teeth, willing the pain away.

"When they say to shut it, you shut it!" one of the thugs growled.

"You will also cease talking!" the Daleks told them. "You will exterminate the Doctor!"

"Yes, yes, yes," the ringleader said. "You go back to your leader and keep developing your little plans and talking it up with Mr. Morehouse. We'll handle things down here." To make a point of it, he glanced at one of the others who threw a third punch. Bruises were beginning to blossom on the Doctor's abdomen.

"We will return to Dalek-Caan," the Daleks promised. "We will be back to exterminate the Doctor."

The Doctor was breathing heavily but managed to shout after them, "So who is doing the exterminating around here?!"

He was quickly silenced.

"All right, we've made a point on his front side," the ringleader said, heading over to a sconce and grabbing something off the hook. "How about his back now?"

The Doctor swallowed nervously as the ringleader produced a whip. It didn't look inlaid with anything, but that didn't make it any less dangerous. He squeezed his eyes shut and gritted his teeth, determined not to scream.

Corcoran couldn't hold himself anymore. Everything in him dropped when he heard the Doctor in the other room. It had started out as groans when the Daleks were there. After they left, the cracking of a whip drowned out any sort of cries for a while. After maybe half a dozen or so lashes, any resolve the Doctor may have had dissolved and he started screaming. Corcoran counted eight more lashes, and then the Doctor was sobbing. A few more and he was whimpering and begging. Corcoran didn't know the Doctor well, but something in his gut told him that if the Doctor had been reduced to begging, there was no hope for him.

Corcoran had lost count at about thirty. A few minutes later, the lashes stopped and the only sound in the entire dungeon was the Doctor whimpering.

"Please, stop…" the Doctor whispered. "Stop…"

He wanted nothing more than to just curl up, fall asleep and never wake up.

"We have enjoyed our time with you, Doctor," the ringleader said, about as casually as Morehouse might have. "We hope to do it again sometime. But, we'd like to give you just a little something more to remember us by."

The Doctor spat out some of the blood filling his mouth and struggled to watch the ringleader as he approached another sconce. From a distance it appeared to be poorly shaped, a cast iron rod sticking out at an odd angle. Only now did he realize it was a branding iron. He couldn't bring the brand into focus, but for about thirty seconds, nothing else mattered but the pain.

He didn't know he had anything left in him to come out, but when he heard the Doctor's final scream, Corcoran might have dropped all his organs too. After that, chains rattled, a man grunted, and heavy steps sounded with a light undertone of something being dragged. Corcoran pretended to try to sleep, slumping down as far as possible. The thugs dragged the Doctor in and shackled him to the wall, a different set likely to prevent any more stunts. They were snickering and exchanging crude jokes.

"What about him, Boss?" one asked.

"Bah, leave 'im. He'll keep till morning. Come on, gents, let's get us-selves a drink."

Corcoran waited for several long minutes until he was certain the thugs were gone. Cautiously, he opened one eye, then the other. He gasped at the sight.

The Doctor had been chained facing the wall, revealing his wounds to the world. His back was split open to the bare muscle with bloody lash marks. There was more muscle than skin left and all was bruised, but his left shoulder blade had been spared the whip. Instead of lashes, he had been deeply branded. The image appeared to be of a small octopus-like creature. Any significance of the image was lost to him.

"Doctor? Doctor!" Corcoran hissed.

No response.

"Doctor!"

Corcoran tried to slump and maybe reach him with his foot. His toe just touched the Doctor.

"Doctor!" Now Corcoran was yelling.

Fear filled him for a full minute. Then the Doctor shifted a tiny bit and groaned.

"Doctor! Thank God." Corcoran allowed himself to relax until his shoulders said otherwise. "Are you all right?"

"What kind of…stupid question is that?" the Doctor murmured, blood dribbling from his mouth.

"Sorry. First thing that came to mind."

"No, don't be sorry. I got you into this."

"And it looks like I'll have to get us out."

"Don't be foolish. We have nothing. Less than nothing."

"We have each other, and I'm sure we can think of something together. Come on, Doctor, what do you say?"

"I say we ought to get some sleep."

"Thought you didn't sleep?"

"There is a difference between sleeping and falling unconscious."

Corcoran couldn't argue with that. He sighed and saw the Doctor was looking at him from the corner of his eye.

"Good night, Doctor."

"Good night, Corky."


	10. Stairway to Hell

"Father, Detective Corcoran and his associate have gone missing," Robert reported sternly.

"Shame that. Is the department looking into it?" Morehouse did not glance up from his newspaper.

"They are, but I think you know something."

"Me?" Morehouse put down his newspaper and gave Robert a truly innocent look.

Trying to ignore the look, Robert went on. "Yes. You were the last one to see them. The butler confirms they came in but did not leave."

"As far as he is aware."

"And Corcoran's friends and his whore and his captain have not seen him since yesterday. Which makes you officially the last person to see him and his friend. So, Father, what do you think of that?"

Morehouse raised a brow. "I think Corcoran would be quite proud of your novice sleuthing skills." He stood and walked slowly around his desk, speaking as a businessman instead of a father. "Robert, yes, I did see them yesterday. But they were beginning to bother me so I made them leave. It is no fault of mine if the butler did not see them leave."

"Father, the last person who 'bothered' you ended up face-down in a gutter. Now then, where are they?"

Bored of the game, Morehouse returned to his newspaper. "As I told you before, look around. They have to be around here somewhere. Now then, I suggest you get out before you start to bother me as well."

"I'm your son!"

"Get out!"

Fuming, Robert left through the first door he saw, though it was not necessarily the double doors through which he had entered. Instead of going out to the foyer, he found himself in a dimly lit room. Now where did this come from and how had he missed it? Of course, this was his father's private office, strictly forbidden to everyone, even his own son. Robert waited for his father to yell and come storming in. He considered getting out. But when his father did not show, his fear waned and his curiosity got the best of him.

Like the study, it had a modest fireplace though the fire had burned low. But it was the footprints on the floor that grabbed his attention. The boot marks were huge, too big to be his father, and there was more than one set. Taking a last quick audio check to make sure his father was not about to barge in, Robert followed the prints into a dark corner. He felt along the wall and came to a door handle.

"Well, father, what are you hiding?"

To his surprise, the door was not locked. His jaw dropped as he found a staircase behind the door.

"What _are_ you hiding?"

Pushing his fear aside, he descended.

When Corcoran woke, the first thing he did was look the Doctor who was sleeping peacefully. Surprisingly enough, he didn't look as bad as he had. His back still resembled one of the questionable dishes served at the taverns, but somehow he just seemed better. A moment later, Corcoran realized why; most of the blood had disappeared. How was that possible? Had someone cleaned him up? To what end?

Corcoran wanted to call out to him, but did not want to disturb him. His worry did not last, however, as the Doctor spoke.

"Good morning, Corky," he murmured.

"Doctor," Corcoran acknowledged. "You're looking better."

"Aw, you're just saying that because it's true." The Doctor took a breath and struggled to his feet, slipping instead to one knee. "Two hearts serve many purposes."

"I don't suppose you could loan me one for the morning."

"Sorry, no."

They fell silent as heavy boots sounded outside, three pairs if Corcoran was any judge. Indeed, the thugs appeared in the chamber, surprisingly cleaner than he would have guessed. The ringleader carried Corcoran's cane like a gentleman's walking stick. And yet, they ignored the detective completely, moving instead to the Doctor and whacking him clean across the back, opening several wounds.

"Morning, Doctor!" the ringleader cried. "You're looking fine this morning!"

The Doctor at least had the sense to remain silent, or maybe he lacked the will to speak. Either way, the thugs moved on, returning to Corcoran. The leader regarded him for a moment. Then, "String him up." He raised a brow. "And don't try anything funny this time."

Corcoran was taken away quietly. The Doctor tried to relax and slump further, but his shoulders were about ready to give out as it was. The human couldn't hope to survive the torture. He himself had barely survived.

"Oh, Corky, please forgive me," he breathed.

From the other chamber, the ringleader laughed. "Well, Corcoran, lookee here. I found your brass knuckles! You remember, don't you? You used these on poor McClarty – among others. Let's see how you like 'em."

Whatever resolve Corcoran had, one fist to the stomach quickly erased it. He couldn't curl up or protect the tender flesh. On the second hit, the detective cried out. A third, a fourth. The Doctor shuddered. Had he sounded like that? What about his weeping and begging? Had he really fallen so far?

Morehouse took each step with extreme caution. There were a few torches on the way down, but most of his descent was done in total darkness. His curiosity had brought him down the steps; fear would likely drive him back up.

"Well, Father, I suppose a direct-access staircase into Hell would not be any real surprise," he murmured. His skin prickled as the words were swallowed by the shadows.

He at last came to a small room lit surprisingly well. It was square and in one corner was a coatrack; along the wall was a rod for suits to be hung. But even more surprising than the light was the fact that the rack actually had a hat and coat on it and the rod held two suits. Listening for any sneaks, Robert approached the rack and rod.

"I know that hat," he whispered, taking said hat from the rack. "And the coat." He sniffed them to be sure. "Copper."

Corcoran had long since stopped bracing himself for the punches, but when he heard the forbidding hum that signaled a Dalek approach, he tensed with fear.

"We're getting there!" the ringleader snarled, raising his fist as if to strike the Dalek.

"A human is coming. He has been identified as the offspring of the human More House."

The other two thugs glanced at each other, then at their boss. "Robert know about all this?"

The ringleader looked thoughtful. "He must or Morehouse would never let him down here."

"Regardless, we must vacate the premises."

"But we're just getting started. We thought you wanted us to 'exterminate' them?"

The Dalek started to fidget. It seemed almost angry, not that Corcoran was any judge of Dalek behavior. "You will cease questioning and come with me!"

"You want us to cut him down?"

"Do not. Come with me."

And like that, Corcoran was left hanging in the middle of the room while the thugs followed the Dalek out of the room.

"Doctor!" Corcoran called after a moment.

"I heard," came the weak reply.

"Don't worry, Doctor, help is on the way!"

_I hope._


	11. I'm the Doctor

Robert was still holding the hat and coat when he heard footsteps and a mysterious whirring approaching from farther on. He quickly threw the items back on the rack and pressed himself into the few shadows, praying the people would merely pass on by.

There were three men, big, burly. If he wasn't mistaken, they bore a resemblance to the men Winfred had hired to rough up Corcoran. But it was the thing they followed that captured his interest. It looked like a pawn in chess, but was made of solid metal, had two odd arm-like appendages sticking out the front and a long rod from the cap. It slid or hovered across the floor, its cap moving back and forth slowly, the rod going up and down every so often.

Robert didn't dare allow himself a sigh of relief even after they passed harmlessly by, not even suspecting his presence. He stayed in his position for at least ten minutes. Then, he dared take one step out of the shadows. And another. And another. Keeping one eye out for any more thugs or those…metal pawns, he slipped deeper and deeper into what he had deemed, The Stairway to Hell.

He went down a short, narrow corridor and then another flight of steps. He ended up on a small platform, then a few more steps down into a corridor. Two doorframes to his left were scary enough, but the shadows cast by the torchlight and the faint rattling of chains nearly sent him flying back up to the safety of the home he had always known. How in Heaven and Hell had Father been able to conceal all this?

"Hello?" he hissed fearfully.

It was all Corcoran needed to hear.

"Robert?!" he cried joyfully, or as joyfully as his condition would allow.

Sure enough, his friend and fellow soldier appeared in the doorway. His friend squeaked a gasp and stood frozen to the spot.

"Copper?! For God's sake, Copper, what happened?!"

"I'll explain when I'm down, but the thugs took the keys." Corcoran frowned. "But don't worry about me. Go into the next room. Help him."

Robert was shocked at "Don't worry about me" but did as he was told. If he was shocked before, now he was absolutely flabbergasted. The back of the man at the far end of the room resembled a dish he'd once seen at a tavern. One shoulder had been branded with a skewed, sun-like image, and what little skin was left was bruised.

"Oh, shit."

He rushed forward, stripping his coat and laying it on the man's back. The man sucked in a breath through his teeth, squeezed his eyes shut and threw his head back like he was going to scream.

"Take it off," he commanded tightly.

"But-"

"Take it off!"

Robert did as he was told. "I'm sorry; I don't know what to do."

"Did you find our clothes by any chance?" the man inquired.

"Yes. Yes, I did. They're in a small room-"

"Well we can't go to them." The man took several breaths. "Bring them here. In my jacket is my sonic screwdriver, that is, if they didn't confiscate it. Give it to me and I can get us out of here."

Robert hesitated, not wanting to leave the man.

"Go!"

He went, glancing once at Corcoran who watched him expectantly. Robert bit his lip as he tried to quickly sneak back up to the dressing room. Fortunately, he encountered no one and gathered up both sets of clothes as quickly as he could; there was no telling when the thugs or their pawn might return.

"I'm assuming the outlandish clothes are yours," Robert said as he dropped them beside the strange man. "Perchance, are you Mr. Periwinkle?"

"How am I supposed to get my stuff if it's there? It's in my left jacket pocket. No, on the inside! See that pocket? Yes, there."

Robert held up the strange little device. "This?"

"Yes! Give it to me!" The man flapped his hand in the manacle and clumsily gripped the little device. Suddenly, the end popped up and started to glow green and created a strange buzzing sound. Only moments later, the lock on the manacle sprang free. He did the same to the other manacle and slid to the ground.

"Oh, yes!" he whispered, rubbing his wrists and shoulders as best he could. He flinched when his hands brushed the brand.

"Hey, Doctor! What about me?!" Corcoran called from the other room.

"Here, take this and free him," the man said, tossing the device to Robert. "I have to dress. He's coming, Corky!"

Robert wasted no time getting to the room, but quickly realized he didn't know how to use the device. He tried to remember how he'd seen it done as he pointed it at one of the manacles holding Corcoran's wrists.

_Just press down and maybe…_

It popped, glowed, buzzed, and the lock was loosed. Corcoran's arm dropped like cooked pasta.

"Can you catch yourself?" Robert wondered.

Corcoran let out a breath but nodded. "Aye, I reckon so."

The other wrist manacle soon sprang free. Corcoran's knees gave out, but his arms caught him before he hit the stone floor. The instant his ankles were unbound, he started dressing, eager to get something between his skin and the cold floor. His leg protested and his abdomen wanted nothing more than to curl up like a baby, but there was time enough for that once they were out of there.

At that moment, the outlandish stranger walked into the room, staggering a bit and yet shirtless on account of his injuries, but otherwise looking full of life.

"Who did you say you were?" Robert asked.

The man strode up to him and took the device. "I'm the Doctor."

They met no resistance on the stairs to the dressing room so they decided to halt for a quick rest. The Doctor sat against the wall, Corcoran and Robert on either side, and put his head between his knees.

"You all right, Doctor?" Robert asked dumbly.

"A little pain never killed any of my people," the Doctor murmured, casting a knowing glance at Corcoran. "How many steps did you say it was to the surface? I didn't think to keep track on the way down."

Robert opened his mouth but only shrugged. "I don't know, quite a few. I did count about half a dozen torches though."

"It's a start."

"So is now the time that you tell me what the hell is going on, or is that-?"

"Not now, Robert," Corcoran interrupted. "We have to get out of here and find some place safe."

"Safe. All right, Corky, where is _safe_ anymore?"

"I know a place," the Doctor said, trying to stand. His new companions came up under him until he found his balance. "Come along, Corky. And, erm, Robert." _Hm…not quite the same ring to it._

There had been plenty of fear to go around in the torture chamber, but it only continued to mount as they ascended the steps – being sure to count the torches – and still met with no resistance.

"I don't like this," Corcoran breathed.

"Neither do I," Robert whimpered.

The Doctor stopped. He glanced back at his companions who waited with a blatant mixture of fear and curiosity on their faces. He regarded them a moment, then shoved his shirt, jacket, suspenders and bow tie into Robert's arms.

"What is this for?"

"You're the least useful of us in a fight," the Doctor told him, continued up the steps. "Corky and I will need our hands free."

"Oi, I've shot a gun!"

"But do you have a gun?" He was met with grudging silence. "And even if you did have a gun, it wouldn't matter. It would make no difference against what we're facing."

"You mean those evil metal chess pawns? I saw one on my way down; it didn't notice me."

"Hm…don't be so sure. They're called Daleks and they…they are far more powerful than anyone really gives them credit for."

Corcoran frowned in understanding, but also wondering why the Doctor seemed to continuously torture himself with the memories of what seemed to be a very old blood feud, if that's what it could be called.

They reached the top of the staircase and faced the door to the office.

"Seven torches," the Doctor reported. "Two hundred ninety steps."

"Thanks," Robert said sarcastically. "I'll remember that next time I come down here."

"Hush!"

The Doctor carefully sonic-ed the door handle and opened the door. The fire had been stoked, illuminating all but the tiniest nooks and crannies. No Daleks hiding here. The Doctor led them across the rug to the other door. He listened, sonic-ed this door as well, and waited a full minute. Robert opened his mouth to speak but a look from both the Doctor and Corcoran silenced him. So they waited.

Taking a breath, the Doctor put a finger to his lips and slipped through the door with Corcoran and Robert right on his heels. They all stopped.

"Oh," the Doctor said.

The thugs. Dalek-Caan and all his followers. Morehouse. Waiting for them.

"You didn't actually think escape was going to be that easy, did you, Doctor?" Morehouse taunted, grinning like a true madman. He peeked around the Doctor. "Oh, hello, son."


	12. Mad Man with a Box

"Hello, son," Morehouse said mockingly. "I am pleased to see you've finally gotten your skin in the game as they say, though the team you chose is most disappointing."

"Hello, Father," Robert said haltingly. "I am honored to finally be included in your plans, though the methods of execution as they say are most sickening."

"Oh, he's good," the Doctor murmured to Corcoran.

"Enough of this verbal banter," Morehouse declared. "I suppose if my hired hands are incompetent, I guess I'll just have to leave execution to my 'business partners.'" He turned away from his prisoners. "Exterminate all of them."

"Now hold on a moment!" Robert cried. "I just want to know why!" That got his father to turn back around. "Why did you torture these men? Why are you in league with these…things?! Why do you have a dungeon beneath our home in the first place? And _why_ would you execute your own son?"

"Fair questions," Morehouse conceded. "Stand down, gents. If my son wants to die with closure, then he may."

The Daleks shifted eagerly, but remained where they were.

"I did it for our family, Robert," Morehouse began. "There is no possible way to win the race of life without taking a few shortcuts and maybe getting a little dirty in the process. I was only securing our place in history, Robert. While you go out drinking and whoring with the Detective here, I have been busy accumulating enough wealth to last our family generations. And the dungeon? Well, every king has an executioner, and every castle has a dungeon. Now then, Dalek-Caan, you may give the order."

"No, no, no, no, no!" the Doctor said, stepping forward and waving his arms. "Now hold on a minute, Dalek-Caan. Can't you see what he is doing? He is turning on his own _son_."

"The human offspring is weak. He is not like Dalek."

"True as that may be-" And here the Doctor glanced back just long enough to see Robert's expression. "-it is the actions of the father that worry me. He was perfectly content to let his son continue to drink and…chase girls, as long as he was blissfully ignorant of what went on here. But now that he knows – and does not approve, mind you – he is quite willing to let him die. And what about you, Dalek-Caan? What happens when he decides he doesn't need you around anymore?"

"Our plans are already in motion; the human is already like Dalek."

"Oh, yes, he is now. But unlike Daleks, humans are not single-minded. They have those things called emotions. What happens when one day he – and he _will do this!_ – starts having second thoughts? If he were to start and have a son on some woman now, would he have time to really instill such murderous thoughts? Could he? And then where will you be?"

"It won't work, Doctor," Morehouse interrupted. "I am the most powerful man on the planet right now, greater even than Lincoln or Davis."

"Ha! You see? And power drives men to their knees even faster. Think of Hitler. I know his file is in there somewhere. The most powerful man in all of Europe once. And he ended up taking his own life."

"His plans failed; they were inadequate."

"And Morehouse's plans are? One mistake or miscalculation, and the whole thing could fall apart. One stray moment of guilt could turn into an obsession or depression. Are you willing to stake your victory on the leadership of such a flawed creature? I've spent most of my life protecting them, and you know where that has put me at times."

"Enough of this! Exterminate them!" Morehouse ordered.

But the Daleks did not move. They twitched and made small movements, but made no move to attack. The Doctor gave a small motion for Corcoran and Robert to come closer, which they picked up on and did.

"I gave you an order!"

Dalek-Caan moved forward and turned to Morehouse. "All records are correct. Humans cannot be relied upon. They are too emotional."

"Emotional?!" Morehouse cried. "Fine! I'll show you emotional!"

In a fit of rage, the old man moved surprisingly fast, grabbing the modified gun and pointing it directly at the Doctor.

"First to kill the poisoner, and then his victims," he breathed angrily.

Only the Doctor's fast reflexes saved them, as he hit the floor and separated from the group, narrowly dodging a bullet, quite literally. As he did so, he got out his sonic and, setting it to maximum, blew open all the doors and windows.

"Time to go!" he shouted, scrambling for the door.

Corcoran and Robert needed no encouragement and all three made for the double doors. Behind them, Morehouse roared in pure fury and gave chase, half a dozen Daleks behind him. There was another shot but it went wide, killing instead the butler who had just opened the door. Robert skidded to a stop and knelt beside him.

"Oh, no. Poor fellow, an honest man until the end," he murmured, oddly stricken with grief.

"Come on!" Corcoran screeched, grabbing his arm and dragging him away.

The Doctor was waiting in the street, still shirtless and drawing not a few stares.

"Your father wouldn't shoot his own son in broad daylight, would he?" the Doctor panted.

"I don't want to find out right now, thanks," Robert said, a panicked grin on his face.

"Is there anywhere safe we can go? He'll search my home first, the taverns and brothels. And I don't want to put anyone else in danger of that madman."

"Ha! That's it!" the Doctor cried, taking off down the street. "Come on, Corky! How would you like to see the mad man's box?!"

Corcoran couldn't deny the desire to see the box, but his desire to live another day was currently winning over. They were soon running down the street three abreast with the Doctor in the middle. Behind them, Morehouse shouted angrily. If they'd turned, they might have noticed he was foaming at the mouth.

The Doctor did not feel quite right, this running, but it was the same not-quite-right feeling he got whenever he was forced to flee. Warmth filled him as he realized he even had companions running with him. Oh, just like old times.

One moment he was running, and the next, he suddenly found himself flying forward into the cobblestone. His back was burning and, as he caught himself, he noticed his hands had that odd, familiar glow about them.

"No!" he cried, struggling to stand. "No, no, no, not now!"

He did not have time to say more than that before Corcoran and Robert scooped him up, one to an arm, and kept going.

"What happened?" the Doctor demanded, though he could probably guess.

"He shot you!" Corcoran reported. "The bastard shot you!"

The Doctor balled his fists, willing away the urge to let go and, for all intents and purposes, die. "We have to get back to the TARDIS, to my box."

"Well then, where is it?"

The Doctor was trying to focus more on staying together, but managed to give directions to the proper alleys where the trio finally slowed, all breathing heavily.

"I don't think he followed far on foot," Corcoran gasped.

"And it would take a few moments for the carriage to be ready," Robert agreed. "And given the nature of Five Points, he would never come here. And he would have had a hell of a time trying to get around if he did." He took a breath and looked around. "Good God, man!"

The Doctor was still tense, trying to ward off regeneration, yet he could not completely disguise the glow and mild disintegration. He put a hand to the back of his right shoulder and it came back bloody.

"We have to get him to a doctor," Corcoran said bluntly.

"I am a Doctor," the Doctor informed him.

"Aye, but even a Doctor needs a doctor sometimes. Can you hold on? I can send word to Freeman-"

"Too long to wait. If we reach the TARDIS, we can go straight to Freeman."

Corcoran cast a doubting glance at Robert, but they gave in and, with one arm around him, briskly walked through the alleys.

"Here, turn left."

They did so and, about halfway down, came upon a magnificent blue box.

"But it's so small," Corcoran observed.

"Robert, in my jacket, right outside pocket, is the key."

The psychopath's son quickly produced the key and unlocked the door. For all their urgency, they couldn't help but stop and stare at what they found inside.

"Yes, yes, bigger on the inside and all that. Oh my goodness! But if you don't mind, I'm just struggling to stay together," the Doctor told them irritably, taking a step or two away from them. "Take me up there to the controls."

But, as Corcoran had been when faced with the Daleks, the men were almost frozen, taking in everything they saw. Their movements were slow. The Doctor leaned heavily on the stair railing and nearly collapsed on the controls.

"Hello, old girl," he murmured.

The TARDIS wheezed in reply, a mixture of joy and concern.

"Don't worry; we're not undergoing any sort of remodel just yet. After all, we just got done redecorating the entertainment room." He grinned and rubbed the controls lovingly.

A sudden pain seized him and brought him to his knees. He gritted his teeth. Not much time. He could stop it. He could, he could, he knew he could.

"Doctor!" Corcoran said, leaping up the steps with amazing dexterity. "Robert, see to that wound."

Robert pulled the Doctor from where he knelt and sat him against the railing. He did not bother to ask before tearing the Doctor's shirt into strips, trying to somehow bind the wound, and the Doctor protested.

"Why do my companions never like my choice of clothing and see the need to destroy it?" he whined.

"Doctor, you're going to tell me how to use this thing!" Corcoran said as he wandered around the main control unit, his jaw open in fear and wonder.

"Only a Time Lord can fly the TARDIS," the Doctor informed him. He took a breath. "Come on, old girl, you can do it. They're looking for a man named Freeman. He's…he's a doctor. And I need him. What do you say?" No response. "Or would you rather we redecorated the entertainment room _again_?"

That put a fire in the old girl. Corcoran jumped back as lights suddenly flashed, buttons were pushed by invisible fingers, knobs twisted and turned, and the final handle pulled down with no outside help. The TARDIS wheezed and roared, as if trying to fight for the Doctor who was seized by another pain and let off a good cloud of glowing dust, frightening Robert.

"What's happening to you?" Robert asked warily.

Corcoran joined them, kneeling beside Robert.

"I'm regenerating," the Doctor told them.

"So, you're healing yourself?" Corcoran tried to guess.

"In a manner of speaking, I suppose. But with regeneration, I will have a whole new body and the TARDIS will have a grand new interior." The Doctor sighed. "But it's too soon. I can't regenerate yet. I won't!"

"Why wouldn't you want to?" Robert inquired. "Sounds pretty good to me."

"Aye, but with each new body…" The Doctor shook his head, unwilling to finish the sentence. _With each new body come new pains._ His thoughts wandered to Amy and Rory and River.

The TARDIS' roar died down to a weak whisper.

"We're here," the Doctor said, his voice as weak as the TARDIS'. When he tried to stand, a third pain, greater than the others, gripped him and he dropped back to his knees.

"I'll get the Doctor," Robert said to Corcoran. "You tell Freeman to be ready."


	13. The Doctor's Doctor

"Matthew!" Corcoran beat relentlessly on the door. "Matthew, for God's sake, open the door!"

_He's out making house calls,_ Corcoran thought helplessly.

"Detective?"

The surgeon appeared a moment later from around back.

"Matthew, we have an emergency! Go on, get ready! We'll bring him to you!"

Freeman didn't have much of a choice. He hurried inside to gather his supplies while Corcoran went to help Robert who was just getting the Doctor – now almost fully alight – out the door.

"Come on, Doctor, we're almost there," Robert told him. "You can do it."

Unfortunately, neither Robert nor Corcoran had what one might call a good bedside manner. But the entirety of the Doctor's energy now was focused solely on fighting regeneration. He couldn't recall fighting it before and found it rather exhausting. No, he couldn't think about that now. He had to focus. He could do it, he could fight it.

"Good God, Corcoran, what happened? Another lightning strike?" Freeman exclaimed as the Doctor was hefted onto the table.

"No, he was shot," Robert said. "My father shot him."

"A bullet's a bullet," Freeman told them as he prepared a syringe. "Now then, unless you both want to become nurses, I suggest you get out."

They didn't need to be told twice.

The Doctor was thrashing like a man either possessed or having a seizure and it took several tries before Freeman could hold him down long enough to get the syringe close.

"No, don't!" the Doctor gasped, springing to sitting position and holding Freeman's wrist in a deadly vice. "I have to concentrate; I can't regenerate, not now! You have to do this – and I hate myself for saying it – but you have to do this live."

"Live? That's not a good idea."

"No, it's not, but you have to. Please. I am begging you."

The Doctor was drenched in sweat and still shaking, but the look in his eyes forced Freeman to agree. "Fine. But I'll have to strap you down."

Robert nearly lost his lunch when he heard the first grating cry through the wall. He looked and saw Corcoran had gone deathly pale as well.

"Doesn't Freeman sedate them?" he asked hoarsely.

"Maybe it doesn't work on his kind," Corcoran offered, fully aware of how silly he sounded.

"Oh? And where is he from?" Robert scoffed and held up a hand when Corcoran tried to speak. "Don't get me wrong, I mean, after today I think I'd believe just about anything."

Corcoran nodded. "I know what you mean. He says he is from far away, a planet called Gallifrey. Or at least he was, before the Daleks destroyed it."

"So that's why they wanted him dead."

"Aye." The detective took out a whiskey flask from his jacket. "Look at us, Robert. Here we are, talking about…Daleks and space aliens and wars. If my captain heard us, we'd be locked away in some godforsaken asylum." He offered the flask to Robert who took it eagerly.

"Maybe that's where we belong." He drank.

"Aye."

So they sat on the step and pretended not to hear the cries from the other side.

"There we are," Freeman breathed, carefully picking out a small scrap of metal that had once been a bullet. While the shape indicated it had been shot from a normal pistol, the metal itself looked almost like solid gold but was warm and just radiated evil. "Now then, a few stitches and you'll be back to normal in no time." He set the bullet aside.

The Doctor, once the bullet was removed, relaxed almost completely. He no longer thrashed like a man possessed, but his jaw was set, eyes squeezed shut, and fists balled until they were solid white masses. As Freeman strung a needle, even the dusty glow around him seemed to fade. Then he opened his eyes.

"I did it," the Doctor said softly into the table. "I avoided regeneration. But something…"

Freeman raised a brow. "No, you got lucky. The bullet missed any major organs. Now then, lie still for a moment more."

It only took a minute and a few stitches. Freeman stepped back to survey his work.

"What about the welts?" the Doctor inquired.

"Welts? There are no welts, just an old brand mark here on your other shoulder."

"Of course. The regeneration had already started and it worked on the most prominent injures first." He realized he was babbling to the surgeon and didn't care. "There wouldn't be anything left, would there? So why do I feel like something's missing?"

"Right," Freeman said shortly. "Now then, you can sit up slowly, but I would advise you to keep your heart rate down for a while."

"Aha!" the Doctor cried, turning right around on the table in one surprisingly fluid motion. He sucked in a breath at the sudden movement and the pain, but he felt almost his old self. Or, his current old self. "That's what was wrong! Only one heart is working!" As if on cue, his chest was gripped in a terrible pain. He gasped. "Only one heart is working."

He clapped his fists together and beat himself ferociously on the chest. Freeman watched incredulously.

"Doctor! Doctor! What do you mean, 'only one heart'?"

At his first yell, Corcoran and Robert broke into the room. To answer his question, Corcoran said, "He has two hearts."

"Indeed." The Doctor continued to beat his chest but attempted to talk. "And. Only. One. Is. Working! Ha!"

There was the beat and so followed the rhythm. He sucked in a breath. But he was still regenerating. No, he was healed. He raised a weary, glowing hand and pointed to Corcoran's leg. The dust encircled the wound. The detective eyed it suspiciously, but it was gone in a moment.

"What did you do?" he asked.

"I'm healed; I don't need to regenerate, but the energy has to go somewhere. Your leg. It ought not hurt so much now."

The Doctor flopped back down on the table, wincing at the pain from the stitches. He closed his eyes.

"Doctor?" Corcoran wondered tentatively.

"God, I could sleep for a week," the Doctor murmured. "But not yet."

"No, Doctor, we'll be all right. I think we could all use some sleep," Robert said.

The Doctor sat up and swung his legs over the side of the table. "No, I mean I can't sleep yet because I am absolutely famished. Regenerating is exhausting, and trying to fight it is absolute murder." He grinned at his own joke. "What's more, I require the rest of my clothes. Robert, be a dear since you were the one who tore up my shirt and go find me another." He frowned and got off the table, stumbling only slightly. "Actually, no, I'll do it; I don't need anyone going through my stuff."

"Doctor," Freeman said, "you can have one of my shirts for now. I'll see if Sara will get us something to eat. Then we can all sit and eat and calm down like civilized men."

He left the room. Corcoran put his hands on his hips. "I'll be damned if that woman did anything for us."

And damned he was. It took all manner of persuasion from her husband, but food was set out for the men and they sat in silence for a while, only eating. The Doctor sported one of Freeman's shirts, a bit big on him, but suitable.

"So then, what are we going to do?" Corcoran asked at last. "Morehouse can't be allowed to continue with his madness."

"What can we do?" Robert wondered helplessly. "We've already seen – _I've_ already seen he would be willing to execute his own son to further his ambitions." He sighed. "How did I miss all this all these years? He was right; I was only concerned about drinking and whoring."

"Don't beat yourself up, Robert; you'll only give him the satisfaction." Corcoran frowned. "We have to kill him. Then maybe the Daleks will go away."

The Doctor chuckled. "The Daleks never just _go away_, Corky. But you do have a point. They follow Morehouse only because he is like a Dalek."

"So then, we have to kill him," Robert sighed.

"No. And you're not going."

"What? Doctor-"

"I said no! I've already put you in too much danger. You both could have been killed because of me!"

"And you would have been killed if not for us," Corcoran pointed out. "So we're coming with you whether you like it or not."

The Doctor grinned and Corcoran thought he saw tears welling up in his eyes.

"Right then!" he said suddenly, jumping up from the table. "Thank you, doctor." He shook Freeman's hand vigorously. "I promise I'll return the shirt, but for now I really need it. All right, then, come along!"

Robert was right behind him.

As Corcoran stood, however, he faltered, gasping in pain from his leg.

"You all right, Detective?" Freeman inquired.

Corcoran chuckled darkly. "I guess that from all the running I've been doing, the pain is only now catching up to me. Do you have something?"

"Always."

A few pills and a new cane later, Corcoran was hobbling out to the TARDIS where Robert held open the door and the Doctor was busy at the controls.

"So then, where are we going?" Robert asked.

"Let's make them sweat a little," the Doctor said. "How does a week sound?"

"A week? A week where?"

The Doctor grinned. "A week into the future."


	14. Standoff

"It has been an entire week," Morehouse growled behind his desk. "And still you have not found them?! The papers are all over me! If it were only the detective, fine. Only the Doctor, fine. But now my _son_ is gone and the press wants to know where! And what about you?!"

"The Doctor may have escaped in the TARDIS," Dalek-Caan offered.

"The TARDIS? And what the bloody hell is the TARDIS?!"

"Time and Relative Dimension in Space."

"Great. So he escaped into outer space, then. So go after him!"

"We cannot. His ship allows for temporal travel at whim. Ours do not. It would be a waste of time!"

"Time. It's always about time with you, isn't it? So go ahead and waste time!"

Morehouse was glaring at the metal pinheads and almost didn't notice when the papers on his desk started fluttering. A hollow wheezing filled the room and slowly, slowly, a blue box marked "Police Box" materialized in the room. As soon as it became solid, the Doctor, Robert, and Corcoran entered the room.

"Or, how about we _save_ you some time?" the Doctor said, a huge, silly grin on his face.

"Impossible!" Morehouse screeched. "I killed you!"

"No, you shot me," the Doctor corrected, stepped confidently over to him, paying the Daleks no mind. Indeed, they even separated so he could walk right up to the desk. "The Daleks did tell you it would take more than one bullet to kill me, didn't they?"

Shaking with fury, Morehouse pulled out the special pistol and aimed it at the Doctor who faced it down without even his eye twitching.

"Tell me, Morehouse, how many bullets do you have left?" He raised a brow. "Two for the door, one for the rug, another for the butler, and the fifth for me. Seeing as it takes two shots to kill me, your gun is about as worthless as your plans."

"Fine then," Morehouse said, putting the gun down. "I'll just let them kill you."

"Oh, I don't think so." The Doctor stepped back and the Daleks resumed their positions. "You see, you are not their leader anymore. Is he, Dalek-Caan?"

"Explain," Dalek-Caan demanded.

"Well now, why would he be? He's a terrible shot in the first place. Here we were, no means of escape, and he _missed_ the shot. And then he allowed us to escape. Oh, that's all very well and good, but why would you want a leader who concerns himself with the outside pressures of the press? And believe me, Dalek-Caan, in the future, it only gets worse. The press is absolutely everywhere, and running a business from the inside is nearly impossible. So unless you wanted to show yourselves to the human race, which wouldn't be received well, you can't keep following him."

"We will adapt," Dalek-Caan told him. "Once you are exterminated, only More House will know of our existence."

"Yes, but for how long? In the future, institutions pay through their spleens to get hold of alien species. And as we've seen, Mr. Morehouse would kill his own offspring if it meant a profit. If he is intending to instill the same Dalek ruthlessness in his children, they would sell you out in a heartbeat."

"The humans will be exterminated anyway."

"Ah, yes, that. That is all well and good, but continuing in this business…'contract,' requires trust. And how far are you willing to trust each other?"

The Daleks all shifted and turned and looked at each other. Eventually Dalek-Caan turned around to face Mr. Morehouse.

"Would you sell Daleks for meager earthly profit?" he demanded.

Morehouse grinned. "Well, it's like the Doctor said. I would kill my own son to make sure my plans succeed."

"And are his plans the same as your plans, I wonder?" the Doctor chipped in.

"More House will be exterminated!" Dalek-Caan decreed.

"Exterminate! Exterminate!" the others choruses.

They all moved in on the desk.

"No! Wait!" The Doctor pushed his way through the metal bodies until he was facing Dalek- Caan again.

"You can't exterminate him, Dalek-Caan," the Doctor said.

"Oh, thank you," Morehouse breathed.

The Doctor glanced at him. "Shut up, Morehouse." Without a second thought, he pinched the man's brachial nerve until he went down, unconscious. He faced the Daleks. "Now then, I was telling the truth when I said the press is of great influence. And it will only get worse. But that does not mean they are not a force to be reckoned with here, in this time. If Morehouse turns up dead, there will be cops just crawling over every inch of this place, isn't that right, Corky?!"

Corcoran looked stunned to be put on the spot, but went along with it. "Um, right. No stone unturned, no book unopened…no _door_ unlocked."

The Daleks visibly flinched.

"The police will tear this place apart," the Doctor warned them. "They'll uncover that dungeon and find evidence of Daleks all over the place. And then, like I said, they will be all over you. The only difference between the two is that in one, Morehouse makes a profit, and in the other, he doesn't. Either way, you will be broken open, dissected, experimented on, and if they find your ships…"

The Daleks flinched again, scooting back almost a foot. The Doctor stepped forward and they moved back as far as they could.

"So then, what's it going to be?" The Doctor brought out his sonic screwdriver. "If you don't leave, I will open the door. And the entire force of the New York City Police Department is going to swarm in here. And what will they find, hm? An empty room, or a room full of Daleks just waiting to be taken to some godforsaken laboratory?"

For a moment, silence gripped everyone in the room. At last, Dalek-Caan hovered forward, but only a few inches.

"Emergency transport! Emergency transport!" Dalek-Caan shrieked.

Soon all the Daleks were echoing this; Corcoran and Robert covered their ears until, one-by-one, the Daleks disappeared. The Doctor's new companions approached him cautiously.

"Well done, Doctor," Robert said, astonished.

"Aye," Corcoran agreed.

"So then, now that they're gone, what do we do? I mean…my father…"

"And the guys at the precinct will never believe me."

The Doctor offered them a sad smile and put an arm around each of them. "Come along back to the TARDIS. Things will get all straightened out."

Just before they reached the door, however, the Doctor gave them both a good brachial stun and they, too, collapsed unconscious. He knelt beside them.

"I'm sorry, Detective," he whispered. "And Robert. It was good to travel with you, but you don't belong with me, and the events of the last few days cannot exist in this time." He bowed his head. "I'm so sorry."

He put a hand to each of their faces in turn and slowly muddled and erased their memories from the past couple days. They would wake up, feeling like they'd been given a good ass-kicking, but no worse for wear. The Doctor then stood and crossed the room to where Morehouse lay, slumped against the wall.

"It would be easy to kill you, Mr. Morehouse, after all the pain and suffering you've put me through. But I do my best not to kill if I can help it."

Selective memory erasure was difficult, but not impossible. Morehouse would wake up, angry and ambitious as ever, but having no knowledge of his deadly alliance. He would still buy up Five Points, probably, but for his own uses. It was sick, but the Doctor knew he could not just have this man wake up as holy as a saint. Finally he stood and positioned all the man in chairs, a half-full glass of brandy in each hand, clothes perhaps a bit ruffled, but an inescapably incriminating story for them. He would get the surgeon in a moment.

The last order of business was done in the office. As he sealed the door for all eternity, he spoke.

"I know you're there, Dalek-Caan."

Said Dalek emerged from the shadows of the dying fire.

"You would erase their memories? For what purpose?" the Dalek demanded.

The Doctor, having finished the seal, stood straight and sighed. He glanced at his old enemy. "Because our worlds and theirs don't belong together. They can't rightly coexist."

"And yet you travel with human companions."

"I did, once. But now…not so much."

"Why did you fight regeneration, Doctor?"

The Doctor shrugged and went back to the study, Dalek-Caan following. "I don't know. I think I've grown attached to this body. Of course, I liked the one before that, too. And the one before that. And the one…" He frowned and looked out the window. "What does it matter? I'm here now, back to normal, I suppose." He turned. "But what about you? Where are you off to?"

"Daleks must exterminate!"

"Ah, yes, of course. I wish you luck in that, Dalek-Caan." The Doctor opened the door to the TARDIS. "Maybe we'll see each other again, though I hope it isn't so long a time."

"It will not. You have been marked and the Daleks will follow."

"Not if I find you first."

Before the Dalek could reply, the door was closed and the Doctor was already punching buttons and turning knobs, ready to leave.

"All right, old girl, where to now?"

The TARDIS gave a jerk and a shudder and began to wheeze contentedly. Then she gave a good jolt and began to rock and roll like a ship upon stormy seas. The Doctor hung onto the railing for dear life but could not stop laughing.

* * *

**Is it the end? Is it the finish? No! It's that bit that comes before the very end! Yup, so there's one more, an epilogue if you will. May come out earlier than Tuesday.**


	15. Epilogue: You Have Been Marked

Corcoran woke slowly, feeling like he had taken a real ass-kicking. Had he been boxing again? He cautiously opened one eye and saw only the glass. Then he opened his other eye and looked around. He was in Morehouse's study. In the other chair, Robert was sound asleep and snoring. He stood and grabbed his cane. His brows furrowed. Had it always been so nice? He couldn't remember.

"My apologies, Robert," he breathed. "But I have to get home."

Before he opened the doors, however, he noticed Mr. Morehouse slumped against the wall behind his desk, the bottle of brandy tipped over beside him. Had Morehouse ever been a drinker? Corcoran couldn't remember. Well, no matter, he still had to get home. Had their butler always been so young? Why the hell couldn't he remember anything?

He'd meant to go home, but instead found himself walking into his favorite tavern. Maguire and O'Brien had apparently started without him. Their expressions turned to total shock when they saw him.

"Corky! Where on God's green earth have you been?!" Maguire demanded. "Come on, have a drink, and tell us all about it!"

Well, he couldn't refuse, could he?

The Doctor stared at the reflection in the mirror. For all intents and purposes, his torso had regenerated. All the welts from the whipping were gone, all the bruises and whatever internal damage had been afflicted. Even the stitches had fallen out and the wound healed to a tiny point of a scar. But the brand was left untouched. Some might call it an octopus or an odd sun, but the Doctor knew what it really was. It was the image of a Dalek in its true form, the little tentacled monster who believed itself perfect. The image was there, clear as day, burned into the back of his shoulder.

"You have been marked and the Daleks will follow."

The Doctor frowned. A brand was a mark of ownership, a way to track things when they went missing. What were the Daleks really trying to say?

Nothing to be done about it now; the TARDIS had landed and he had to be ready. He buttoned his shirt back up, put his jacket on and tied his favorite, cool bow tie. He walked through the control room, running his hand along the control as if in a caress.

"Well done, old girl," he murmured.

And then, after a quick check for all essentials – bow tie, fez, sonic screwdriver – he took a breath and opened the door.

* * *

**The End.**

**So I might write another story about the brand and what it means and the adventures that ensue, but not today. Thank you for your continued patronage and have a nice day. :)**


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